


In Uthenera

by worldofmydevising



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Fantasy, Guarded Mycroft, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft and Greg traipse around Thedas, Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-23 08:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14930612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worldofmydevising/pseuds/worldofmydevising
Summary: The world is overrun by evil creatures, and the king and his armies fall in a battle that goes horribly wrong. Only two young recruits are left behind...as well as Senior Enchanter Mycroft Holmes and Knight-Captain Gregory Lestrade. But the odds are against them, and they’ll need every ounce of courage, heart and heroism they have to survive the darkspawn in a world that has been torn apart by demons. On hiatus, but I promise it's Priority #2 after Working Backwards.





	1. The Ides of March

It was the night before the Battle of Ostagar, and Gregory Lestrade was quite frankly _terrified._ Blood-red cracks streaked the sky, and it seemed to the knight-captain as if the world might shatter at any second. Even if by all accounts the Grey Wardens would win easily to-morrow. Even if it was just a small battle in Ferelden, largely inconsequential to the war that raged across Thedas.

No—as he led his men into the tents where they were to make their final preparations, something told Greg that this would be the last time they were all together. He hoped only that the losses would be minimal.

 Greg looked around, trying to read the expressions of the other soldiers. Everyone seemed merry, laughing and chattering as they toasted each other. Knight Commander Gregaoir was deep in conversation with Greg’s men. King Cailan’s armor shone bright gold to match his flaxen hair, tied back in a neat tail. He was speaking to one of the Grey Wardens, Duncan (surly as usual, but Greg had always liked the man) and two bright-eyed new recruits—a warrior and a mage. Cailan’s voice carried loudly as he spoke of glory and victory, but Greg saw his näive overconfidence for what it was. Advisor Loghain stood by his side, looking as if he’d just swallowed sour grapes. Greg had never seen him look otherwise, and let his spirits lift for a second at the thought of Loghain as a stringy-haired, scowling child. 

“To victory!” First Enchanter Irving cried to one of his senior enchanters. Irving’s hand trembled, and Greg suspected it was not his first toast of the night. His gaze turned to the senior enchanter. Greg had seen the man often, making his rounds in the circle. He’d always had a soft spot for bookish men and redheads, and sometimes he doubled back to the Circle library on walks just to steal another glance at Senior Enchanter Holmes. Watching him sit quietly with a book in the Circle library with his hair illuminated by the crackling fire was always a highlight of Greg’s long nights patrolling the Tower.

The expression on Enchanter Holmes’s face in that moment was far from peaceful. Greg watched as he smiled tightly, face inexplicably drawn as he tossed back a _long_ drink. Holmes’s icy grey eyes locked on Greg’s for a second, and the men exchanged a look. _To-morrow will be a day that none of us will come back from...only no one seems to know it but us._ Holmes inclined his head, holding Greg’s gaze, and then Irving whisked the enchanter off to meet with the other mages. 

Greg sank back down in his seat, exhausted. Duncan strode briskly towards him, knives swinging in their holsters.

“Ah, Captain Lestrade. Are your men prepared?”

“Not enough.” Greg’s tone was light, only his heart was anything but.

Duncan half-smiled. “You should have joined us. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance.”

“In death—sacrifice.” Greg finished the motto for him.

“It will be an easy battle, to-morrow. The darkspawn have very nearly been stamped out. This is the beginning of the final push, and then the war will be over.”

Greg wanted to tell him that no one could be sure, except he was interrupted by the blonde warrior recruit before he could speak.

“Our very first battle, Camille. Finally some action...although I suppose you did just complete the Joining. _I’m_ excited, in any case. Are you?” His manner was easy and boyish, and Greg liked him immediately. He remembered the anticipation he’d felt before his own first battle, and hoped tomorrow would be all to the recruit that he imagined.

The girl spoke quietly. “I am ready, Alistair, but I don’t know that I am excited.”

Greg frowned. He looked closer, and saw that she couldn’t be much older than a teenager. Behind her calm exterior lay abject terror—he could smell it on her. What was she doing here?

 “Camille has just completed the joining...and as such she will not be fighting to-morrow. It is too soon, and she needs time to recuperate. Alistair, you will accompany her.”

 “What? You want me to babysit?” Alistair was incredulous.

“Alistair—” Duncan warned.

 “Yes, yes. No whining. Fine, I’ll stay. But you know I’ll fight _sometime._ You can’t protect us from that forever.”

 “As it happens, you are needed for an important task. You have to light the beacon that signals the final attack. I am not protecting you...merely reminding you that our responsibilities are many, and not all of them are glamorous. We fight, yes. But we are Wardens and we must see to everything that role entails.

 The warning nudge Camille gave Alistair did not escape Greg’s notice. “Yes, Commander Duncan. We’ll light the beacon tomorrow, just tell us what we have to do.”

 Duncan’s nod was approving, but something about the lifelessness in Camille’s tone worried Greg. Wardens were strong and respected leaders, not...this. She wouldn’t make it a year. She shouldn’t have to.

 Before he could give the girl further thought, she too had been brought away by Duncan and he was alone once again.

 “Right, don’t mind me,” he muttered. “I’ll just...sit here. Alone. With ale I’m not even going to drink, because shouldn’t we be _sober_ and _not hungover_ if we’re going to be fighting?”

 A clipped voice spoke into Greg’s ear. “After weeks of fighting, I suspect we might well find ourselves more dexterous while inebriated.”

 Greg whirled around. It was the handsome senior enchanter. “Enchanter Holmes! I thought the mages were in the other tent discussing tactics.”

 Holmes narrowed his eyes. “I could say the same of the templars.”

 Greg realized with a jolt that their tent was suddenly vacant. “I, um, got caught up?” The statement came out like a question. “I should go find them.”

 “Wait.” Holmes caught his arm, and Greg felt his cheeks heat up.

 “Yeah? I mean—yes, sir?”

 Holmes was quiet for a second.

 “Does it seem to you that to-morrow will be not at all as they imagine?” Even as Greg registered the ominous words, he couldn’t help but think that Senior Enchanter Holmes had an incredibly attractive voice.

 Greg shook his head to clear it, and nodded. “Yes. But what can we do but head into battle to-morrow, hoping that we come out whole?”

 Holmes smiled humorlessly. “We will not. And I propose that we do not fight at all.”

 “But what of Ostagar? The darkspawn will take it in a heartbeat!”

 “They will take it regardless,” Holmes said steadily. “But Cailan and Irving and Duncan and the rest will fight. Cailan isn’t going to let this battle go. No, I propose that _you and I_ stay behind. If they are right, hope against hope, the both of us will not be missed. If Ostagar is to fall, two more men won’t change that reality. I heard Duncan speaking with the recruits earlier. They will need assistance in the event that things go astray.”

 “You’re asking me to abandon my post. To leave my men behind.”

 “You have trained them well. I suspect they are able to lead themselves capably.”

 Gregory couldn’t deny that fact. His men were as capable in his absence as they were standing behind him. Still, he rankled at the idea of just leaving them. They were in this together. “I have to fight, Senior Enchanter. No matter what.” Curiosity overcame him. “Why me? Why not Duncan, or Irving, or Knight-Commander Gregaoir? I’m far from the most powerful person here, or even the most powerful templar. You don’t even know me.”

 The forcefulness of Enchanter Holmes’s reply took Greg by surprise. “I’ve watched you for a while, Gregory William Lestrade. Enough to see that you’re a good and strong and brave man, and those recruits are going to need you when the world comes crashing down. We don’t have a chance in hell of surviving without you. _I need you._ ”

 Greg shook his head with regret. “I wish I could help, Senior Enchanter. But I have to fight.”

 “Then I leave you with this.” Holmes leant down, and Greg felt his breath hot against his cheek. Soft lips found his, and they kissed him tenderly. Then Holmes straightened again, and he was gone.

 Greg pressed a finger to his lips.

  _Maker’s breath, what was that?_


	2. Battlefield

Greg woke to a crash of thunder, dread pitted in his stomach. Ostagar would fall that day, and he knew it, but he’d be damned if he didn’t do his best to stop the darkspawn. He owed as much to the country he loved. 

_Is it truly necessary that I go to my death in the rain? I’d kind of hoped for a nice sunny day—no? Thunder and lightning it is, then. At least it’ll have dramatic appeal._

He’d overheard King Cailan and Loghain going over battle tactics late last night, and it hadn’t sounded promising. They were to send a small army to…pique the curiosity of the darkspawn? And then the new Wardens would light the beacon, and another army headed by Loghain would arrive to help. With due respect to Cailan and Loghain, this plan was _absolutely bonkers._ The reserve forces weren’t nearly large enough to overcome the numbers of the darkspawn, no matter how well-trained. 

Greg scowled, kicking a stray darkspawn limb out of his path. He’d just have to grit his teeth and hope for a miracle.

An angry yell sounded in the distance, and Greg looked to the horizon.

_Oh, dear._

There were hordes and hordes of darkspawn, all foaming at the mouth and crying (well, grunting) for blood. Their armies stretched across the landscape, from one end of the Kocari Wilds to the other. And yet…

Greg looked at their own forces—the mages and the templars and the Grey Wardens, and he imagined that they _could_ take the darkspawn if they put up a good fight, especially with the help of the reserve armies. 

Then the darkspawn charged with a mighty roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, and there was no time to think because the sky was full of flaming arrows and he was suddenly engulfed in a stream of Mabari war-hounds running full tilt towards the darkspawn. 

“FOR FERELDEN!” cried King Cailan, and the soldiers started to fight. 

The scent of blood hung thick in the air, war cries deafening in Greg’s ear. He struck out blindly with his sword and shield at first, disoriented still by the darkness and sudden clamor. Soldier after soldiers fell to the ground. Some were merely stunned, and sprang up shortly after with swords drawn. Most of the fallen soldiers lay there unmoving, expressions frozen in ghastly caricatures of surprise. Greg tried to step around them. 

Cailan and Duncan fought bravely ahead, at the front of the line. For a first-time warrior, Cailan was doing well, although Greg caught Duncan saving his arse more than a few times. The pair was steadily slicing through the darkspawn horde, and Greg marveled as Duncan struck down an ogre twice his size by leaping atop its barreled chest and plunging his sword deep into its heart. There was a sickening _crack_ as Duncan twisted his weapon, and Greg forced his gaze away. 

Eventually the crowd thinned, and Greg’s was able to get his first clear glimpse of the scene ahead. Unfortunately, what he saw was a particularly menacing hurlock archer and the glint in its eye as the monster recognized its next target—him. 

Greg dove for cover, and heard the whistle of an arrow as it soared centimeters above his head. He started to get back up, only to see the sneering face of a genlock as it lifted its grey, scaled foot and planted it squarely on Greg’s torso. Pain bloomed across his chest, and Greg sank back down. The genlock kicked him a final time and left, satisfied. 

Greg staggered back up, knowing that he’d be trampled if he succumbed to the darkness. Most of the army had forged ahead. A bright flame sparked to life in the distance, catching his eye. Greg heaved a sigh of relief.

_The beacon. Thank the Maker, the Wardens did it!_

He tried to catch up to his platoon, ignoring the ache in his chest. The reserve forces would arrive soon, and the battle would be over. The end was in sight—they would win. Greg looked over his shoulder to gauge the progress of Loghain and his men. 

The men were retreating. 

Something was very, very wrong. 

The world spun again before Greg’s eyes as he stood, petrified. Where the _hell_ was Loghain? The last of his men were falling, and he had to act fast if he was to escape certain death. _But my men._

The words of Senior Enchanter Holmes filled his head. _“You’re a good, brave man…no chance in hell…I need you.”_

Greg’s eyes locked onto the beacon’s light, and he ran and ran and ran until he felt that his lungs were on fire. Then he ran still more until darkness claimed him, closing around the beacon like a dragon swallowing its prey.


	3. A Light In The Dark

The first thing Greg thought upon waking was that he wished he hadn’t. He wasn’t so much as _near_ the beacon tower, he was bleeding in at least eleven places and the world had apparently ended. Not a single soldier on his side had been left standing, and although the darkspawn were no longer gathered together a number of them now roamed freely around the ruins of Ostagar. The place had been completely ravaged. The king was dead. All had been lost, and now he would die of thirst or hunger unless a darkspawn found and killed him first. Or—he shuddered— _turned him._

_Well, fuck._

Greg lay there for a while, taking stock of the situation. 

_Think, Lestrade, think. It can’t all be over. The two Wardens are out there still, maybe with Holmes. I just have to find them, and we’ll decide on the next steps together._

He looked bleakly at the miles of rubble ahead. At least they couldn’t be hiding. That was, if they were even still around. Greg started to crawl. 

It was hard work. His arms and legs shook with the strain, still weary from the battle. Every so often a darkspawn would venture nearby, and after the fifth close call he felt that his heart would never work the same again. He was starving, and his mouth was so dry that his tongue wouldn’t come unstuck from the roof of his mouth. Death would be a welcome respite, but he was needed here. For all Greg’s faults, a lack of resiliency was not one of them. He meant to find Enchanter Holmes and make everything right, or die trying. 

“I’m going to find Enchanter Holmes and make everything right, or die trying,” he said to the pile of rubble in front of him. Somehow it sounded a lot more foolishly optimistic aloud than it had in his head, but he reasoned that noble aspirations made the world go round in stories, and Dramatic Statements always seemed to spur everyone to action.

He waited for a telltale crash of lighting to signal impending doom or action or _anything_ , but there was only silence.

_Oh, well. Worth a shot._

And then—

“Well, you’ve accomplished your first task,” said the pile of rubble dryly. 

Greg opened his mouth to cry out in surprise, but a hand stretched out from the rubble and pulled him towards it. 

“Holmes!” he said quietly. “You’re alive.” 

“It would seem that we both are, yes. For now, in any case. We need to find food and shelter.” Holmes looked thoroughly disheveled, and he hadn’t even been on the battlefield. Greg found himself admiring the effect before quickly banishing the thought.

He furrowed his brow. “The darkspawn probably have our goods, but there are plants in the Kocari Wilds we could use for sustenance. It’ll hold us over until we travel to town.”

“Lothering is only a half-day’s travel from here. I’d hoped to locate the wardens before leaving, however. Have you seen them?”

Greg frowned. He’d hoped Holmes would know where they were. “No—I thought you were tailing them.”

Holmes sighed heavily. “The darkspawn had taken the tower by the time I got there. I wouldn’t have stood a chance on my own, and I was surprised the Wardens even managed to light the beacon. No matter, they’re likely to stop at Lothering for supplies as well. We’ll find them.”

“What happened, anyhow? We all saw the beacon. Loghain’s troops never came.”

The enchanter looked away. “I do not know. Loghain may not have been as loyal as we thought.”

“No… _Loghain?_ He was King Cailan’s most trusted advisor for years!”

“Such is the way of the world.”

“There must be another explanation.” 

“Perhaps. But we must attend to the situation at hand. Traitor or not, we will be of no use to anyone if we perish here.”

“That _fucking bastard._ I never trusted him. I’ll kill him, I swear it!”

Holmes took Greg roughly by the shoulders. “Lestrade,” he said urgently. “Right now, we need to gather supplies and head to Lothering. There will be time enough for blame later.”

“But—” Greg took a deep breath and let it out. “You’re right. I think I saw some mushrooms by the edge of the Wilds earlier. Let’s go; you watch my back.”

Holmes scowled. “Why must _I—_ ”

“Because _you_ can pluck off any attackers from a distance, while I only have my sword and shield.”

There was no argument to be found in his logic, and the pair set off with Holmes reluctantly trailing behind. The few darkspawn that followed were easily defeated, and before long the men had a sackful of herbs, scraps and full pitchers of spring water. It was decided that they’d set up camp in the Wilds for the night, and head for Lothering at dawn the next day. 

It was cold even with the fire they’d lit, and Greg found himself huddling as close to Holmes as he dared under their blanket of reeds. For warmth, he told himself. 

He took a deep breath. _If we’re going to save the world together, we should at least be on first-name terms._

“What’s your name?” Greg asked his companion.

“My given name is Mycroft.”

“Can I use it?”

“If you like.” 

Not the warm invitation Greg had hoped for, but at least it wasn’t a rejection. He mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on his mind since the eve of the battle. “Mycroft, why did you kiss me?” The name felt exciting on his tongue, but right.

Mycroft suddenly looked very vulnerable in the firelight. “I thought it was my last chance to.”

Greg felt something quicken in his heart. “But it wasn’t,” he said softly. 

Mycroft’s expression shuttered. “It won’t happen again. My apologies. Our relationship from this  point onwards is to be strictly professional. There is much to be done, and no time for idle dalliances.”

The hope that had stirred in Greg fluttered feebly and died in his chest. “Of course.” He turned away, afraid his face would betray his emotions.

Behind him, Mycroft’s features were suffused with pain. Mycroft shut his eyes tightly, and then schooled his face into a carefully neutral expression. The men were silent for the remainder of the night.


	4. Into The Woods

The awkward silence continued into the next morning. Greg and Mycroft arose at dawn, stirred from sleep by howling wolves. Greg shivered. He and Mycroft were more than a match for anything they might encounter in the Wilds, but the sound was chilling nonetheless. It reminded him of the stories his parents had told in his childhood, a lifetime ago. He remembered huddling under the covers, glad of the warm fire and safe home as he listened to tales of the elven god Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf. It was said that Fen’Harel would masquerade as a beautiful wolf or a handsome young man. Those who heard his calls were lured to sleep—into the Fade, land of dreams and demons. They never awakened, for Fen’Harel devoured the souls he stole. 

A chill ran down Greg’s spine, and he quickly set about packing in an attempt to occupy his mind. 

 _Relax. Just stories, yeah? A way for parents to stop children from going into the forest and_ actually _being eaten by wolves. But I’m thirty, accompanied by one of the best mages in Ferelden, and there is nothing to fear. No monsters under the bed—mostly because I haven’t got a bed. But still._

He cast a glance at his companion. Mycroft seemed unperturbed, although Greg was starting to think he might _be_ the Dread Wolf. Gorgeous and mysterious and magnificently russet-haired…Mycroft could certainly give Fen’Harel a run for his money. 

Greg strapped on his leather gauntlets and stood. “Ready?” He asked. _Someone_ would have had to say something sooner or later. The less time spent in excruciating silence, the better. 

Mycroft startled slightly, but quickly composed himself. “Ah, yes. Lestrade, I wondered if we could make a brief detour. I’d heard of a flower with healing properties that grows only in the Kocari Wilds. It is the last component of a research project I’ve been working on. I was unable to locate any yesterday, but perhaps if we crossed the forest rather than returning the same way…?”

Greg smiled up at him, sunny and earnest. “‘Course. If my memory serves, they grow by the waterfall. Wouldn’t mind a quick dip.”

Mycroft nodded stiffly. “Thank you. Shall we be on our way?”

Greg led the way again, and this time there was no protest from Mycroft. The fragrance of passion-vine mixed lightly in the air with the scent of wood and light rain, and something else that was vaguely musky. Lush greenery stretched for miles, but it made Greg feel relieved rather than agoraphobic. Every so often Mycroft would point out an interesting plant with alchemical properties. Greg only half-believed that elderwood could instantly make a person beautiful, and he tried not to think about the fact that dumbcane could apparently render him mute with a single bite. Kocari Wilds could be beautiful if it weren’t quite so dangerous and untamed, he mused. Then again, it was the Kocari _Wilds,_ as opposed to the Kocari Gardens. It wouldn’t have quite the same charm if you weren’t nearly eaten at every turn. He turned to check on Mycroft, who was…engaged in a tussle with the ground. 

“Mycroft?” Greg was hard-pressed not to laugh as he watched the most dignified man he’d ever met playing a valiant game of tug-of-war with a rabbit trap, in which Mycroft’s robe had been caught. He watched in amusement for a second before taking pity on the mage. 

“Here, let me.” These traps were common in the fields where he’d grown up. Greg had lost many a pair of boots to them as a child. He deftly pried the metal jaws apart with his sword, freeing the ruby silk. Spotting another trap hidden in the grass, he disarmed that one as well. 

Mycroft’s cheeks were flushed pink. “Thank you. I’m afraid it has been…quite some time since I was last away from the tower.”

Greg grinned. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said cheerfully. “Your Official Wilderness Guide, ready for situations including but not limited to attack by rabid boar, angry plants and rabid and angry past lovers.” He paused thoughtfully. “Although if your memory’s been wiped by those emby-whatsit plants we saw earlier you’re on your own, mate. I’m from Highever. No plants that can make you taller or stronger or wiser, just laurels. And laurels. And more laurels.”

That earned a slight smile from Mycroft. “ _Embrium._ And that restores your memory, the one you’re thinking of is rashvine. I’ve heard tales of Highever. What was it like, there?”

Greg tried to tell him, and then he realized with sadness that the memories were all foggy. 

“Friendly,” he said finally. “It’s been fifteen years since I left, but it’s still home to me.” The details were lost to Greg, but he remembered the warmth that had wrapped around him wherever he went. Even now, he remembered the kind faces he’d known and loved in his youth. The fruit merchant Sherlock and his assistant Johann, who snuck him custard-pears in exchange for old coins. The weapon-smith, Old Hudson, who’d given him his first blade and taught him how to use it. Most of all, his parents and his younger sister Sally. Greg looked away, waiting for the dampness in his eyes to clear. 

He heard Mycroft’s unasked question. _What brought you here, if you were happy in Highever?_ He chose not to answer it. Some hurts were best buried in the past.

Mycroft seemed to pick up on this. “I haven’t seen much of Ferelden. I was born illicitly to a Circle mage, and taken away to be raised in the Denerim Chantry. My magic started to manifest when I was still very young—maybe five or six. I’ve been in the Circle since.”

“Do you remember your time in the Chantry at all?” Greg asked carefully. He didn’t want to overstep any boundaries, but at the same time Mycroft seemed to respond well to gentle coaxing. 

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “Vaguely,” he replied. “I recall liking how quiet it was, a welcome respite from the city. The sisters and Revered Mother were always kind to me, and Sister Justine taught me history and took me relic-hunting.” His eyes lit up at the recollection, and Greg couldn’t help but smile. “I was happy in the Chantry, but the mages and templars in the Circle have also been good to me. Sometimes I find myself speculating about my biological family, but I am generally quite content.” He paused. “Are you?”

Greg thought about it. He missed his family, but they were alive and well in Highever. His work as a templar was difficult, but rewarding. His heart twinged as he remembered his men, and he said a silent prayer for them. They’d died honorably, and there were no regrets. Among them and the other templars Greg had made friends, and had taken lovers from time to time. Yet there was something missing. 

“I’m also content,” he answered truthfully. _But not happy…not yet. Someday._

Greg felt the spray of water on his face, and was glad to see a dear little waterfall ahead. The pool at its bottom was a crystal oasis of deep blue, framed with colorful water-lilies, and he stood still for a second marveling at its beauty. Only a second, and then he was gleefully stripping off all his armor and jumping into the pool. Mycroft could only stare, horrified, as Greg disappeared until the water’s surface. 

Greg resurfaced, shaking water out of his eyes and looking distinctly like a hound who’d just been told to chase any small annoying creature he wanted. 

“This is _brilliant_! You’ve got to come in!” he yelled back.

Mycroft let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and tried not to notice how— _chiselled_ —the templar’s torso was. Maker’s breath, but he was beautiful. Greg’s dark eyes sparkled against his lightly flushed face, and Mycroft couldn’t help but wish those muscular arms were holding him rather than cupping a handful of water.

_Wait…_

No sooner had he thought the word than Mycroft found himself in possession of a thoroughly soaked robe. 

“Now you’ve got to come and get me back!” Greg said jubilantly. 

_Maker help me. I’m to stop the darkspawn Blight with a five-year-old masquerading as a middle-aged man._

Mycroft sighed, and set about collecting elfroot flowers. 

 

Greg splashed around happily for the better part of an hour (under the guise of bathing. Mycroft hadn’t so much as heard of baths necessitating the picking of water lilies and what looked from land like underwater dancing, but he decided he would really rather not know.) Nevertheless, he was glad when Greg finally climbed out of the water smelling no cleaner but looking refreshed anyway. He’d never admit it, but he liked Greg’s bright presence by his side. 

The pair set off for Lothering in companionable silence. Greg disarmed traps and collected loot, and Mycroft set fire to darkspawn and collected herbs. All in all, Greg reflected, they were a pretty efficient world-saving pair. 

 


	5. Dear Friend

Greg and Mycroft decided to take the Imperial Highway, reasoning that the road would be quicker and safer than simply wandering in the general direction of Lothering. The highway was rather more full of darkspawn and refugees than Greg remembered it being from a few years back…but he supposed that was to be expected when a darkspawn Blight was in full swing. 

“This is kind of a silly question, but what _is_ the Blight?” Greg felt that as a templar he should have learned the answer to this question long ago, but he’d always simply equated “Blight” with “more darkspawn”, especially since he hadn’t anticipated one in his lifetime. Yet it had come, and it must be caused by _something._

Mycroft nodded. “What do you know of darkspawn already?” 

“They live in the Deep Roads mostly, only they come to the surface occasionally for raids. One an Age, they start to come up in swarms and start a darkspawn war which we call Blights. Um, they’ve got something they can spread to other animals called the taint, and it changes you from the inside to become like them.” Greg shuddered with disgust. 

“That is correct. You have heard of the Old Gods?” asked Mycroft.

“Dragons, yeah?” Greg asked uncertainly. “Buried underground…they were worshipped by the Tevinter Imperium until it fell? What do they have to do with darkspawn?”

“Yes, they believed that it was the Old Gods who taught our race to use magic. The Old Gods lie dormant in the depths of the earth, but the darkspawn hear their song. We can’t hear the Call, but the Grey Wardens can, because they’ve been tainted, just enough so they can follow it. Each time the darkspawn discover an Old God and infect it with the taint, it becomes what we call an Archdemon and starts a Blight. It unites the darkspawn horde and rallies it to war, and the war rages until the Archdemon is slain. Only a Grey Warden can kill the Archdemon, and this is why we need to find the two Grey Wardens.”

Greg set his jaw. “We’ll find them. And look, we’ve arrived.” He surveyed the scene below them with a combination of relief and dismay. Lothering looked a mess. People were fighting as they fell over themselves haggling with merchants, packing up their houses, raiding the trash—all scrambling to get out before the darkspawn arrived. Greg wondered where they were all planning to go. A child cried out for his mother, and Greg felt his heart break a little. Mycroft pointed out that there seemed to be a very tall man standing in a cage. 

“Oh dear,” was all Greg could say. He wanted to help them all, and yet this was only the barest glimpse of the ugliness which now ravaged his country. 

“Excuse me, sers,” started an oily merchant at the highway’s exit. “Did you mention that you were looking for Grey Wardens? They happened across my stall earlier. I’ll tell you where they went, for a price.” 

Greg started to draw his sword, but was stopped by Mycroft’s warning hand over his own.

“Thank you, but I believe we can locate them on our own.” Mycroft tried to step past the merchant, but the merchant moved to block his path.

“Fine, but you’ve still got to pay the toll. Twenty silvers, please.”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “We haven’t got _ten_ silvers, let alone twenty. There is no toll—this is patently ridiculous. Please let us pass.” 

The merchant’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll take the staff you’ve got under your robes instead, and if you won’t oblige I’ll just have to tell the Chantry that there’s an apostate mage in Lothering.”

Greg saw the blood drain from Mycroft’s face, and decided that this had gone on long enough. He unsheathed his sword, and had it at the merchant’s throat in a matter of milliseconds. 

“Careful, young man,” breathed the merchant. He stank of smoke and sweat. Greg felt the cold slice of metal on his own neck. The ground beneath him started to shake, and suddenly the knife held to his throat dropped. The merchant lay in front of him, unmoving. A quick glance behind confirmed that his partner had met the same fate. Mycroft stood as if petrified, pale and wide-eyed. 

Shoving the bandit’s knives into his rucksack, Greg grabbed Mycroft’s arm and hauled him quickly off the highway. The bandit had been right—Mycroft _was_ now a rogue mage, and he’d be in trouble if anyone were to find out. Never mind that now, Mycroft looked to be in need of a hug and a stiff drink. Perhaps not in that order. 

Nevertheless, Greg wrapped his arm more securely around the mage. “Got your you-know-what secured?” he asked kindly. “Let’s head for the tavern, and then we’ll figure something out.” 

Mycroft nodded wordlessly, still shaken. No sooner had the men stepped into Lothering’s gates than they were accosted by the lost little boy Greg had seen earlier. 

“Have you seen my mother?” the child sniffled. His voice was hoarse. “She left to get a blessing from the Chantry yesterday night, only she never came back.” 

That did _not_ bode well. 

Greg knelt in front of the boy. “We’ll see if we can’t find her for you. My name’s Greg, and this is Mycroft. We’re adventurers…and if you like you can come with us while we look for your mum. What’s your name?”

The boy smiled through his tears. “Ethan,” he said. “What _kind_ of adventurers are you?”

“We…we’re friendly adventurers,” he improvised. “We make friends with the people who need it, and we help them.”

Greg heard Mycroft disguise a snort as a cough beside him. At least he’s feeling better, he thought sourly. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go find your mum.”

The unlikely trio set off for the Chantry. Greg knew the boy’s mother would be long gone, but they had to at least try to find her. 

Mycroft paused before the entered the Chantry courtyard, and Greg understood his hesitance. 

“See you in the tavern in a bit?” he asked. Hopefully the other patrons would be drunk enough not to recognize the tell-tale shape of Mycroft’s staff under his cloak, or at least not to care. 

Mycroft nodded gratefully. “I hope you find his mother.” He bent down and kissed the top of Ethan’s head. “Best of luck, little one.” Ethan flung his arms around Mycroft, and Greg watched as Mycroft softened and embraced him back. 

Ethan and Greg waved as Mycroft crossed the bridge to the back-half of Lothering, and then they opened the huge wooden door to the Chantry. 

It was busier than any Chantry he’d seen before—injured refugees lay on the floor in a back corner, their wounds tended to by the sisters. Yet more refugees clamored by a screen, presumably hoping to for blessings. Strangely enough, there was an abundance of mages openly carrying their staves. He realized that with all the unrest of the Blight, apostate mages must be the least of the Chantry’s worries. Mycroft would be relieved. 

Suddenly Ethan gave a yell and barrelled towards a young woman sitting with the refugees, deep in conversation with a templar and two mages, one wearing little more than a small piece of purple cloth. The Chantry-boy in Greg cringed a little. 

“MUM!” Ethan cried, as the woman took him into her arms—arm, Greg realized, as he noted the empty sleeve and the bandaged shoulder. 

The templar turned, smiling, and then his face lit up with recognition. “You’re Duncan’s friend!” 

“You’re the Grey Wardens!” 

The scantily-clad woman turned, and Greg could have sworn she looked down at him despite being at least a head shorter. She was beautiful, in a distinctly predatory sort of way. Her jet-black hair framed her face in a manner that seemed more artistic than unruly, and her lips looked as if they’d been stained with wine against her porcelain skin.

“I see we’re taking in yet _another_ mutt,” she said icily. 

Greg bristled, and so did Alistair. 

“Dog was a perfectly noble addition to our party, Morrigan!” Alistair shot back. “Unlike you.”

Morrigan narrowed her green eyes, catlike, and turned to Camille. “I was referring to your fool templar friend. Are we to take in his brother?”

Camille sighed. “Let’s go outside, and talk this out.” 

She excused herself with a parting hug to Ethan and his mother, and Greg and Alistair followed suit. Morrigan trailed them outside haughtily. 

“Well?” she demanded once they’d stepped into the courtyard. “You can’t join us, we’re not doling out charity here.” 

Greg wrinkled his nose. Where had they found _her_? He addressed Camille and Alistair. “I’m not in need of charity, and neither is my friend. We’re capable and experienced fighters, and we’d hoped to aid you in your cause against the darkspawn. Rest assured that we’re happy to pull our weight.”

“I’m glad to have them if you are, Camille,” said Alistair. “We could use good fighters… _and good people._ ” This last part was accompanied by a pointed glare at Morrigan.

Camille ignored the jibe. “A few more fighters would be helpful. Morrigan, what do you think?”

“Another _templar_?” Morrigan spat. “’Tis a lucky day indeed, when your beloved _Chantry_ falls. What use do you bring to our party, besides a feeble attempt at quelling magic far more powerful than you are?”

Greg tried to compose himself. “I was trained as a warrior, as well. My comrade Mycroft is a skilled mage. He is also an apostate.” 

Camille drew in a sharp breath. “Mycroft Holmes? From the Circle? He’s alive!”

“Indeed. Were you acquainted?”

“Not well, but he taught me when I was training in the Circle. He was always kind. Once I had trouble with a spell and he stayed behind on his break to give me additional help. You and Enchanter Mycroft would be welcome, if you’ll come.”

Greg had always felt that Mycroft was a good person, but the anecdote made him smile. 

“Let’s go find him, then.”

 

 


	6. Bar Fight

A steady throng of refugees marked the way to Dane’s Refuge. Greg prayed that Mycroft hadn’t run into trouble. He missed him already…was that strange? He looked over his shoulder. Morrigan and Alistair were bickering, as they had been the entire ten-minute walk from the Chantry. Camille walked alone, jaw set and stony.

_Yeah, no. Understandable, given present company._

They stepped into the tavern, and Greg was gratified to see Mycroft sitting unharmed at the bar. A closer look revealed that he was deep in conversation with a pretty redheaded girl in Chantry robes, and Greg felt a stab of jealousy. The lay sisters in his day did _not_ visit taverns, and they _most certainly did not flirt._

“Mycroft!” he called.

Mycroft turned…and so did every man in the building. Greg realized belatedly that an awful lot of the tavern’s patrons seemed to be rather heavily armed for your average drunkard. They looked at him suspiciously, and then their eyes widened simultaneously as their gazes settled on something behind Greg.

“Looks like we got lucky, lads.” A heavyset warrior advanced menacingly towards him. No, not him. The Wardens. 

Alistair, ever perceptive,“Uh-oh. Loghain’s men. This can’t be good.” 

The lay sister Mycroft had been speaking to slid gracefully off her bar stool. She planted herself in front of Greg and the Wardens, addressing the soldiers. 

“Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble. These are no doubt simply more poor souls seeking refuge.” Her voice had a musical quality to it, soft and lilting. Greg hated her, even as she tried to placate the soldiers. Stupid Orlesians. 

“They’re more than that,” a soldier grunted. “They’re the traitor Grey Wardens. They caused Cailan to fall. Now stay out of our way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you’ll get the same as them.” 

The sister widened her eyes. “Traitors? I assure you, gentlemen…” 

"Enough talk. Take the Wardens into custody. Kill the sister and anyone else who gets in your way." the soldier ordered. 

Daggers appeared in the sister’s hands, and she wielded them with the grace of someone who’d been fighting all her life. Out of the corner of his eye, Greg saw Mycroft carefully draw his staff. Greg deftly ducked into the fray, exiting on Mycroft’s side of the room.

_Behind every mage stands a very beat-up templar._

“Ready?” he breathed. Mycroft nodded. Greg drew his own weapon, and started to attack. 

He was pleasantly surprised to find that his sword was now gleaming with a thin sheen of ice. Magic was _cool…_ literally. 

Another half-minute, and not one of Loghain’s men was left standing. Greg and Alistair shared a victorious high-five. Camille and Mycroft shared an eye-roll. Morrigan just scowled. 

Camille looked coldly at the leader of the soldiers, now cowering before her. 

“Leave, and tell Loghain we’re coming.”

He clambered out the door, the rest of his men in tow. 

The pretty lay sister/assassin turned to Camille, covered in blood but looking somehow serene. “I’m sorry for interfering, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch. My name is Leliana, and I hail from the Lothering Chantry. I know you’re  going to need all the help you can get to defeat the Blight. That’s why I’m coming along. The Maker told me to. I had a vision!” She smiled blithely.

Camille blinked at the girl. Gred decided that Leliana was flat out crazy. Very pretty, and apparently also deadly. But mostly insane. 

Alistair broke the silence. “More crazy? I thought we were all full up.”

Leliana ignored him, looking sincerely at Camille, who still looked shell-shocked. Greg didn’t blame her—it had been a _long_ week. “Look at the people here. They are lost in their despair. This chaos—this darkness…will spread. The Maker doesn’t want this. What you do is the Maker’s work. Please let me help.” 

Camille glanced helplessly at Mycroft. 

Mycroft cleared his throat awkwardly, uncomfortable with the five gazes now trained on him. “I had the pleasure of speaking with this young lady earlier. She has just proven herself a capable fighter, and I believe that she is genuinely dedicated to the cause. It is my view that she will prove an asset.” 

“Okay,” said Camille. “You can come with us. I think we should head back to camp for the day before we manage to find yet _another_ person to fill our tents. We’ve got to start making new ones, at this rate.”

Greg could have sworn that Leliiana started glowing. He moved ever so slightly closer to Mycroft, and kept him engaged in a truly scintillating conversation about Lothering’s history all the way to their campsite. Years later, Mycroft would be dismayed to find out that Greg hadn’t _actually_ cared about Lothering’s origins as a trading post. Regardless, both of them looked fondly upon that afternoon. 

 


End file.
